By Any Means Necessary
by li'lmissnitpick
Summary: Season 2 AU. The unthinkable has happened and life will never be the same at Downton. The Granthams are forced to undertake a desperate plan in order to keep the youngest Crawley safe. When her marriage to Branson is not only supported but encouraged, how will it change the course of their lives?


**A/N: Hello everyone. This idea occurred to me in that strange half-sleeping, half-awake state that is maddening for sleep-deprived insomniacs like me, but that is also more often than not a tremendously fertile site of creativity. I would normally write down such ideas and forget them, as I am not by talent or inclination a writer. But then Series 3 happened.**

**I have seen the impassioned pleas by some truly wonderful authors here, calling for continued dedication to Downton Abbey. In light of this, I felt somehow compelled to share my thoughts—and my writing. I thought the best way to do this was a sort of preview, if you will, to gauge whether there is any interest in this story. **

**What follows is the first chapter of a planned AU story. It's a look at the course of the Crawleys' lives post-war, with a particular focus on Sybil and Branson. It assumes that Branson has declared himself to Sybil, who is still deciding whether to run away with him. But there are some major differences. Edith has married Sir Anthony Strallan with relatively little fuss, and Matthew and Mary have married also, without the mess with Lavinia. As for the bulk of what makes this AU, well, you'll have to read it and see.**

**Chapter One**

It is late and she hasn't come.

Branson sighs a little and stands next to the workbench in the garage, hands on his hips, as he considers what to do. He can't help but be disappointed, but he refuses to dwell on the negative. He's done that enough over the years, torturing himself about what her absence might mean, about whether her feelings for him have changed—in his favour or against. But things are different now. The war is over, and he has to have hope. God knows there's been little enough of it lately.

Sybil. Her name is like a sigh.

He shakes his head as if to clear her from his mind—as if he ever could—and purposefully seizes the newspaper sitting on the stool. He has the time for it now. It's unlikely that any of the Crawleys will need the motor. It is after dinner, and there isn't much call to travel here and there to so-and-so's soiree, even now that the war is over and politics is in the air. Lord Grantham clearly doesn't want to upset the apple cart and make himself conspicuous again, and while Branson can't agree with the approach, he can certainly understand it. After all, isn't he the one who's been waiting like a bleedin' eejit for the woman he loves to come away with him?

He sits down on the high stool and smoothes out the newspaper, the close, dark lines of the broadsheet comforting and familiar. He looks forward to the news, and reading it is one of the most rewarding parts of his day, if sometimes the most painful. The large leaves of paper aren't quite as smooth and white as they were before the war. The ink isn't quite so permanent and the typography is a touch less polished, but resources aren't what they once were and he knows it. Despite the changes, Branson takes comfort in the fact that he can still sit down and follow the concerns and the circumstances of the nation, even in times such as these.

It is dark out, now, but he has a lamp, and he peers closely at the densely-packed text snaking down the page. His practice is to start at the top, reading every last word at least once—maybe even twice or three times. He has convinced himself that as long as he knows what's going on, nothing can hurt him. Such piece of mind comes at a coast, however. It isn't as easy as it once was for him to get his hands on the newspaper, but it makes the privilege all the more rewarding.

Now that Sybil relies on him for news, he wants to make sure he leaves nothing out. She is always so desperate for the news—almost as desperate as he is—and he is gratified to share with Sybil what he learns every day. She says that Lord Grantham studiously avoids any frank discussion about the state of the nation now, and any conversation that the Crawleys might have over the dinner table is based on whatever heavily redacted pieces of information Lord Grantham deigns to share. More often than not they are left to discuss the weather or the food, or whatever pleasantries they can drum up in their increasingly troubled minds. Sybil tells Branson that she remains mostly silent, unequal to the task of playing her father's games.

Branson knows she feels at loose ends now that the war was over. Her nursing duties complete, she is left to while away her time at the big house, reading, occasionally visiting, generally waiting for life to happen once again, in whatever shape it takes. She sneaks down to the garage whenever she can, finding comfort in the news and, he hopes, in him.

He hates to see her so listless. She is a woman who needs purpose, and now, finding none, she is left too often to her own thoughts. She has become increasingly withdrawn when she was in company with her family, and they have begun to notice. She isn't so with him, thank God—she shares things with him that she would never dare share with her mother or sisters, or Heaven forbid, her father. She lets herself be fearful and contrary and sometimes even melancholic with him. It is distressing and humbling and flattering all at once. He doesn't always know what to think about her moods, but he knows that he would rather experience them all—as varied and as unpredictable as they are—than be faced with an eternity of that polite and blank face that she wears in public now. She tries to put on a strong and cheerful face, for her family's sake. But the cracks are beginning to show, and she'd been spending more and more time with him in order to avoid the exhausting effort of wearing that damnable mask of nonchalance in front of the family.

Sometimes he feels like he would do anything to hear her laugh again—a real laugh, one not tinged with sadness and regret.

As if summoned by his thought, a light tapping at the door catches his ear. Without waiting for an answer, Sybil peeks her head in and, finding him alone, steps across the threshold, closing the door with a firm nudge. She is dressed casually, as if she changed out of her dinner clothes by herself before coming to him. Her dress is a lovely royal blue, well made but simple. It makes her skin look even more luminous and her eyes even more blue. The colour makes her look younger, especially in the lamplight.

"I know it's late," she says, looking uncharacteristically shy, "but I couldn't get away until now." She pauses and steps closer, her gaze fixed maddeningly on his shoes. "I needed to see you."

He melts a little at her confession. "I'm here, as always milady," he says mildly, a touch jauntily, hoping for a smile and searching her eyes for some indication, some hint that she might have made her decision.

"Don't say that," she says quickly, a slightly shamefaced look gracing her delicate features. "You know I would never keep you here against your will."

Branson feels a flicker of dread light and begin to burn uncomfortably in his belly. "Wouldn't you?" he asks. "You asked me to stay after you rejected me at York. And I have." It sounds bitter and defensive, even to his own ears, but they have had this argument before and he can't seem to stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth like pebbles into a pond, rippling out and disturbing the calm with their heedless, percussive force. He winces a little, but she cuts in before he can apologize.

"I didn't reject you," she says hotly, the spark in her eyes firmly lit now.

He scoffs and shakes his head. "You didn't say yes."

"I didn't say anything." She's glaring now, and she sounds exasperated. It rankles that she doesn't see his hurt. He's a man, after all, and a man's pride is wounded when the woman he loves refuses to marry him, whether the refusal is verbal or not.

"It was answer enough," he says flatly. He leans against the workbench, crossing his arms for a moment as if to shield his heart from further pain. But then he drops his arms back to his sides and he forces himself to relax a bit. He says more gently, "Your face, your eyes, the angle of your neck and the slump of your shoulders…You didn't need to say it, my love. I knew you weren't ready to give them up. To give _this_ up," he said, gesturing in the air to indicate Downton, the grounds, the garage, even his cottage. His domain—and hers—though it really is not so much his as hers.

"It wasn't no," says Sybil, her voice soft and uncertain and her eyes planted firmly at his feet yet again. She raises them briefly to gauge his reaction before settling down once again. "It was…not yet."

It drives him mad, this shadow-Sybil, this Sybil who doubts and wavers and never quite looks him in the eye. It reminds him that she is still quite young, because he forgets sometimes—he forgets that she's only just turned 21, that she has led a sheltered, privileged life, that she is so much less worldly than he. He forgets because she has always seemed older than her years. She was a precocious teenager—curious, rebellious, fearless—and she was a nurse, an island of calm during the war. She is strong, he knows, but she is afraid. And she trusts him enough to show him her fear.

He looks at her tenderly and gives a small, wry chuckle. He finally—finally—succeeds in catching her eye with his. "I didn't know that then." He is rueful, and he knows that he will never regret waiting for her, not if there is even the smallest chance that he can have her.

"But you stayed," she says, her voice bolder, almost defiant. This is his Sybil—passionate, free-spirited, strong. Life would never be easy with her, but by God would it be worth it.

He nods, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I did."

"Why?" He sees the vulnerability in the question even through the steel of her spine and the challenge in her bright and fearless eyes.

The answer is obvious to him, but he wonders if she really wants to hear it. He hasn't said it yet; he knows she hasn't yet been ready to hear it. But he sees it now, that faint glimmer of hope in her eye—hope, which is in such short supply. He says is outright and quickly—confidently, like pulling off a bandage. "Because I love you. You know that." His gaze softens and it's his turn to look away, the beginnings of a blush apparent on his cheeks. "Of course you know that."

She says nothing for a long moment and he wonders if he has misjudged her terribly, if he has been wrong when he so confidently informs her from time to time that she is in love with him. Finally, she asks, her voice quiet and serious, "What if it isn't enough? Love, I mean."

Branson turns away from her and runs a hand over his hair, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. "What do you want me to say?" he demands, turning back to face her. "That I'll leave? That wish you happy and think only of you as that sweet young woman I used to drive around in England?" His voice goes quiet and he can practically feel his emotions vibrating alongside his vocal cords. He wills his voice not to break, but he can hear the fear and uncertainty in his own voice. "That I'll go back to Ireland and you'll never see me again?"

Sybil looks aghast. She takes a step toward him and grasps his larger, calloused hand in hers. It's a working man's hand, but she doesn't seem to mind. She strokes to lines of his palm with her tiny, cold fingers. Her hands are not unused to work, but they are pampered nonetheless. Her skin is so soft, and he nearly loses himself in her touch. He barely hears her whispered, "Of course not."

"Then what do you want?" His heart is in his eyes as he meets hers—blue colliding with blue, the tumultuous waves of the ocean crashing together during a storm.

She looks away first. "I don't know. I need more time. Everything's so topsy-turvy. How can I leave, abandon my family when everything is so upside down?"

He takes both her hands now, both of them cradled in his fist while the other covers them gently, warming them a little. He faces her, and doesn't speak until her gaze is locked with his. His voice is quiet but intense. "Things are changing. I told you once that, when the war was over, the world wouldn't be the same place as it was when it started." He removes one of his hands from hers and reaches for the newspaper on the workbench, grasping several of the leaves in his fist. "Look at what's in front of your eyes," he says, imploring. "London is a pile of rubble. Our soldiers are all captured or killed, and the government has been obliterated. We've lost the war, Sybil. We have to deal with a new reality. We're ruled by the Kaiser, God help us, and life's too short to live with regrets."

**A/N: I know, I know. Talk about burying the lead, right? So that's where the AU comes in. The Central Powers have defeated the Entente, and life is irrevocably changed for the Crawleys. How's that going to shape up?**

**Again, this is a preview to gauge interest. I am employed in an industry heavily influenced by the seasons, and fall, with its ramp-up to Christmas, is that busy time in which stress and overtime and lack of sleep are par for the course. If this chapter is well received, I'd like to begin writing in my spare time (ha!), finishing the bulk of the planned story before beginning to post in the new year.**

**Thank you all for reading—and putting up with my rambling! Please leave a review with any thoughts or suggestions.**

**Best,**

**Li'lmissnitpick**


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